


dear tomorrow, you've been shining so brightly

by cagetraumasam



Series: to being an 'us' for once / instead of a 'them' [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Roommates, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 09:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18407465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagetraumasam/pseuds/cagetraumasam
Summary: Really, he can’t remember a time when this wasn’t the way of things: him and Dean and Dad, crowding in on each other in a too-small motel room barely fit for one person, knowing intimately the rhythm of each person’s breathing as they slept.





	dear tomorrow, you've been shining so brightly

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> 1\. This is the first installment of a Stanford Era series that I've had the idea for for quite a while. The series will not be focused exclusively on Sam's dynamic with Brady, but it definitely will be involved. However, other characters from Sam's Stanford life will eventually show up as well! Characters like Jess, obviously, but also other people mentioned or seen in season one of the show!
> 
> 2\. Currently, this is the only fic in the series written. I don't have a schedule I'm working from; I've decided to just write and post when I feel like it. I've got a pretty good idea of what the trajectory of the loose storyline itself will be, but as for now, I hope you enjoy this first part!
> 
> 3\. The title for this fic is a lyric from the song Yours, Truly by Paradise Fears. The title for the series itself is a lyric from La Vie Boheme from the musical Rent. I'll go more into that in a later installment.

It’s not like Sam’s never shared a room before—that’s what he keeps telling himself. He knows he must’ve had a nursery when he was a baby, but he also knows that it burned just like the rest of the house that he doesn’t remember. It would honestly be more strange for him to have a place to call his own.

He’d had that place at Flagstaff, sure, but that was really the exception to the rule, and anyways, it wasn’t the kind of home that was ever meant to last. It wasn’t a home at all, not in the ways that really matter. He knows that now, no matter how fondly he looks back on the memory.

Really, he can’t remember a time when this wasn’t the way of things: him and Dean and Dad, crowding in on each other in a too-small motel room barely fit for one person, knowing intimately the rhythm of each person’s breathing as they slept. Sam remembers that when they were younger, he and Dean would often share a bed; vaguely, he remembers Dean’s arm thrown over him like an extra blanket, and the warmth. He remembers feeling safe. But of course, as they got older, it became less of a comfort and more of an inconvenience, as Dean was liable to steal the scratchy covers, and apparently Sam’s a kicker. It was always a treat when Dad made enough hustling pool or at the poker table that they could pay for two rooms in a single night; three beds for three people was a luxury for a good half of Sam’s childhood. As they grew, though, Dad left more and more—Sam hadn’t known why, not at first, just that it was for work—and it was nice to have a bed to himself while still having Dean there to talk to. That wasn’t always the case, though; once Dad had deemed him old enough, sometimes Dean got dragged out of town on a hunt, leaving Sam behind, but by that time, Sam had known the danger that they might’ve been in, and he was always filled with too much cold and cautious dread to really appreciate his newfound freedom or privacy. The only thing worse than being forced to hunt was being left alone. He’d take crowded and cluttered over lonely and scared any day.

He’s shared a room most of his life. He knows what it is to have to turn his back while his brother gets dressed, to have to compromise on whether or not they turn on the fan if they’re lucky enough to book a room that has one. He knows how to keep secrets in a room that feels like it might cave in on him. By all accounts, the prospect of sharing a room shouldn’t make him nervous.

But it does. Because he knows that sharing a room with family must be infinitely different than sharing a room with a stranger. How is he supposed to explain to a stranger the sweaty confusion as he wakes up from a gasping nightmare, half-convinced that the monster of the week is hiding in the room, waiting to pounce? How, when all he used to have to do was look at Dean once, and there were no words, no patronizing pats on the back or alarmed and panicked reassurances, just a nod of understanding and the pass of a room-temperature plastic water bottle, half-crushed from use?

The memories hurt to think of.  He hasn’t spoken to either of them since he left a little over three days ago.

(His chest is still tight from the memory of carefully finding a case close enough that it wouldn’t take him a week to get here. Casually turning his laptop towards the pair of them and choking out something about a ghoul. Sam had brought up Stanford with them months ago—his Dad was quick to shut it down. He’d been pretty sure, in fact, that in the following months, John was convinced that he’d changed his mind, that he wasn’t going after all, and Dean was half-convinced that he’d been joking, but finding a case for them near enough that getting there was relatively easy, without giving himself away? That had been hard.)

He doesn’t know who who his roommate is going to be, how he’s going to act, whether he’ll be completely freaked if he finds a flask marked “holy water” stashed away somewhere. But he figures that the best case-scenario is that they don’t actively hate each other and and that they’ll manage to stay out of one another’s way. It’s probably too much to ask for, but Sam’s always been built on hope. That’s why he’s even here.

The door is slightly ajar already, so Sam pockets the key he’d been given. Prices for replacements are steep, and a full ride covers a lot but it doesn’t cover that, so he’s determined not to lose it. He takes a deep breath, not knowing what to expect ( _ you gotta be ready for anything, Sammy _ , John’s voice is still so clear), but forces himself through the frame of the door despite his apprehension.

Maybe it’s hunter instincts, or maybe Sam’s just always felt the need to take in his surroundings as quickly as possible—he’s not really sure, and he doesn’t want to think on it too much. But as soon as he enters, it’s like he’s checking off a list in his head. The room is bigger than at a motel, but it’s still a little cramped. Sam’s glad of it, honestly; he thinks he would get restless with too much space, but he knows how to move his body in close-quarters, how to make the space work for him. The walls are hard cement painted white, and there are two sturdy looking beds parallel to each other. He’s gonna have to sleep either with his legs curled up or hanging off the edge, but that’s not a big deal. One of the beds is lifted a few inches higher than the other, and it’s already got a bedspread on it. Navy blue dotted with green, neat but still rumpled enough to know that the whoever it belongs to wants to look like he’s not trying. There’s a carpet on the floor, soft and beige, and a TV on the counter above the case of drawers, and Sam figures those have to be the yet-to-be-named-roommate’s additions, because he’s pretty sure even Stanford doesn’t include HBO in the price for room and board.

He doesn’t realize he hasn’t said anything, or bothered to look at his roomate or his parents, until he hears a squeak of surprise come from the mother. “Oh, hello!” she says, a woman with red hair and a wide, plastered-on smile.

“Um. Oh! Hi,” Sam sticks out a hand. He’s not packed down with bags; really, he’s just got his duffel and his backpack, and a jacket that won’t be enough for the winter. He tilts a little as he shakes her hand, firm, and they all laugh, and though Sam feels a little uneasy, he’s smiling right along with them. 

After he manages to set both of his bags down and and shake his roommate’s father’s hand (and exchange names with the boy himself; Tyson, but everyone calls him by his last name), they ask if they can help him bring in his other things, and inquire about whether his parents are around.

“Oh, no, it’s… it’s just me. This is everything,” he adds, shifting his eyes away to avoid the expressions of pity he knows he’ll find there. He adds, to Brady, “I still need to go buy some sheets and a blanket, actually, so I’ll see you in a bit.”

“We could take you, if you want,” Brady offers. “Dad just got a new car, actually, and it’s pretty cool. We could show you?” There’s a nervousness in his words that Sam wouldn’t have expected. Brady has the cool-guy image down to the bones, with short-yet-tousled hair, an easy-but-stylish outfit, and a grin that seems made of charm. But he’s nervous.

It’s actually kind of comforting.

“What a wonderful idea!” Mrs. Brady says. “We could do a bit of shopping and take the boys out to dinner.” Sam freezes up, clenches his fists by his sides, and hopes no one notices. “Our treat, of course,” she adds.

“That’s really nice of you, Mrs. Brady, but you don’t have to do that. I’m really okay.”

“Nonsense!” Mr. Brady chimes in. “We want to get to know  _ all _ about our son’s new roommate.”

Sam smiles, but he can tell it’s forced and thin-lipped even without being able to see it for himself. He doesn’t know how much he would be able to tell them, and how much he would have to make up. He doesn’t want to lie, especially not to people who are being so nice to him, but he certainly can’t tell them the truth, either.

“Well…”

“Great!”

Before Sam even really knows what’s happening, both of Brady’s parents are out the door and on the way to the car. Brady sighs and looks over to Sam.

“I’m sorry about… the ambush. They mean well, but they can be… well, you saw. Sort of pushy.”

Sam laughs. “Don’t sweat it. It’s kind of sweet, actually. Although considering my, uh, current state,” he looks down at the days-old sweatshirt and jeans ripped unintentionally, “I’m not sure I’m fit to go anywhere, you know,  _ nice _ ,” he says, remembering the earrings that Mrs. Brady wore and and the pre-med textbooks on Brady’s desk, and thinking  _ yeah _ , this family must have some money.

Brady grins back at him. “Don’t worry. This was sort of a plan before we even met you; and I made my parents promise that if they shanghaied my roommate, we wouldn’t go anywhere too… uncomfortable,” he settles on, after a moment. Sam barks out another laugh, pleasantly surprised by the other boy’s easygoing nature.

“I appreciate the thought,” he replies. Brady’s the first of the two of them to head for the door; Sam still needs a moment. He takes a look at the room again, and suddenly sharing it with the other boy doesn’t seem so implausible. Brady seems like a good guy, and for the first time in three days, Sam is sure he made the right decision. It might be hard at first, but they can make it work.

Brady pokes his head back in a moment later. “You ready?” he asks, but there’s no rush in his voice, no demand, no fire. Just a question and a soft expression that tells Sam that Brady would wait if he wasn’t. Sam smiles back, soft.

"Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed. I, personally, worried that the ending was a little rushed, but oh well, what are you gonna do, right? Anyways!Come shout at me @cagetraumasam on tumblr if the need to strikes you.


End file.
